Play Dirty

Again Griff moved away, but Rodarte scrambled and planted himself in his path. He moved in close and lowered his voice again, this time to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then there’s the matter of the money.”

“What money?”

“Come on, Griff,” he said in a singsongy, wheedling tone. “The money you stole from Bandy.”

“There was no money.”

“Maybe not cash. A safe-deposit box key, maybe? Foreign bank account numbers? The combination to a safe. Stamp collection.”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit!” Rodarte stabbed Griff in the chest with his finger once again, harder, angrier.

Griff saw red, but despite his wish to break bones, he couldn’t touch the man. One touch would be all the provocation Rodarte needed to engage him in a fight. If he got into a fight with Rodarte, even if he won, he’d spend the night in the Dallas County Detention Center. Bad as his new apartment was, he preferred it over a jail cell.

“Hear me, Rodarte. If Bandy had any money squirreled away, the secret died with him. I sure as hell didn’t get it.”

“Pull my other leg.” Rodarte slammed him back against the wall and moved in close, baring his teeth. “A hot hustler like you would have made sure he didn’t come away empty-handed. You’ve got expensive tastes. Cars. Clothes. Pussy. If you didn’t tuck away some of Bandy’s money, how are you going to finance all those luxuries?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Rodarte. I’ve got it covered.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

Griff didn’t reply.

Rodarte said, “I’ll find out, you know.”

“Good luck. Now get the fuck out of my way.”

They shared a long, hostile stare. It took every ounce of willpower Griff had not to knee the guy in the balls and throw him off. But he stood his ground and his gaze didn’t flinch. Eventually Rodarte dropped his hands from Griff’s shoulders and took a step back. But he wasn’t admitting defeat.

“Okay, Number Ten,” he said softly. “You want to make this hard on yourself, fine by me. In fact, I prefer that you do.” He whispered as though making a malevolent promise.

Griff went past him and had made it to the corner of the garage when Rodarte called him back. “Hey, answer me one question.”

“Yes, I think you’re ugly.”

Rodarte laughed. “Good one. But, seriously, when you snapped Bandy’s neck, did you come? I know that happens sometimes.”

“What do you think?”

Laura didn’t have to ask About what? She and Foster hadn’t talked about Griff Burkett yet, but he might just as well have been the centerpiece on the dining table. His presence between them seemed almost that tangible.

She set down her fork and reached for her wineglass. Cradling the bowl of it between her hands, she thoughtfully stared at the ruby-colored contents. “My first impression is that he’s angry.”

“At?”

“Life.”

The formal dining room, which accommodated thirty or more, was used only for entertaining. The first twelve months of their marriage, they’d hosted numerous di

This evening, as on most evenings, they were having their di

Tonight their di

“I think Mr. Burkett would be angry under any circumstances.”

“That anger having been ingrained into his personality?”

“Well, you read the newspaper story about how he grew up,” she said. “Granted, his early years were a nightmare. But that doesn’t excuse what he’s done as an adult. He broke the law. He deserved his punishment. Possibly more than he received.”

“Remind me never to get on your fighting side, Mrs. Speakman. You’re ruthless.”

She didn’t take offense, knowing he was teasing her. “I just have no tolerance for grown-ups who blame their shortcomings, even their lawlessness, on a disadvantaged childhood. Mr. Burkett alone is accountable for his actions.”

“For which he has atoned,” her husband reminded her gently. Lightening the mood, he added, “I promise to do my part to see that our baby doesn’t have a disadvantaged childhood.”

She smiled. “Left alone, I think you’d spoil him rotten.”

“‘Him’?”

“Or her.”

“I’d love a little girl who looks just like you.”

“And I’d be over the moon to have a boy.”

Their smiles remained in place, but the unspoken words hung there above the dining table. Neither a son nor a daughter would have Foster’s features. Similar, perhaps, but not his.

Laura took another sip of wine. “Foster…”

“No.”

“Why ‘no’? You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Yes, I do.” He indicated her plate. “Finished?” She nodded. He laid his knife and fork at a precise diagonal across his plate and folded his napkin beside it.

She stood up as he backed his wheelchair away from the table. “I’ll ask Manuelo to clear the table while I get the coffee.”

“Let’s have it in the den.”

In the kitchen she filled a carafe with coffee, which she’d set to brew while they were having di

She fixed his coffee and carried it to him. He thanked her, then waited until she had hers and was seated on one of the leather love seats, her feet tucked beneath her.

He continued the conversation as though there hadn’t been an interruption. “You were going to say that we could take the more conventional route. Have artificial insemination with an anonymous donor.”

That was exactly what she’d been about to say. “They keep sperm donors anonymous for a very good reason, Foster. We would never know his identity, never have a mental image of him. The child would be ours. We’d never be studying his or her features, looking for similarities to…to someone we’d met.”

“Do you object to Griff Burkett’s features?”

“You’re missing the point.”

He laughed and rolled his chair over to the love seat. “No I’m not, I’m teasing you.”

“I guess I’m not in a teasing mood tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” He reached up and ruffled her hair.

But she wouldn’t be placated so easily. “This is probably the most important decision we’ll ever have to make.”

“We’ve already made it. We’ve been over this a thousand times, studying it from every angle. We’ve discussed it for months. We talked it to death, and then talked it some more, and finally agreed it’s the right path for us.”

For you, she started to say but didn’t. “I know I agreed, but-”

“What?”

“I don’t know. In theory…” She let the sentence trail. What worked in theory didn’t necessarily translate well into flesh-and-blood reality. Particularly since it was her flesh and blood that would be affected.

“I’m only asking for one child,” he said, stroking her cheek. “If I could, I’d give you the three or four children we pla

Before. There it was, that giant qualifier. That six-letter word was weighty with its significance to them. It was the line of demarcation in their lives. Before.